>A Dad’s Dangerous Doodies

> Sometimes being a dad is dangerous. I meancall-the-cops-get-the-paddy-wagon-haul-him-off perilous. Let me‘splain:

I have a wonderful wife, who cooks, cleans, works out, helpspeople, has relationships, and takes care of our kids. She has “momduty” during the week while I’m at work. On the weekends, certainduties, or should I say “doodies” fall upon me. Yes, I’m speaking ofpoop patrol. Now, fortunately for me, our son is 12, and can handlethings for himself; our daughter, however, is four, and when at homecan mostly handle the wiping herself. Except for perhaps a littlebrown spackling, which is what dad is for. This isn’t really an issue.Where we run into problems is when we’re out and about. It doesn’t seem to matter where we’re at–a restaurant, or church(and, yes, our church is large, and has a restaurant, and a police presence, and no,it’s not like going to church at the Gap)–it never seems to fail thatour dear little sweetheart has to go when the hot food is beckoningfrom the plate in front of me. No, she doesn’t need to go while we’rewaiting to be seated, or while we’re ordering–it’s always after thefood has arrived, and I’m dying to tuck in. I know better than to lookover at my wife: this is what she does all week long. I look longinglyat my plate, try to persuade her to wait, but the reply is invariably“I-gotta-go-right-now-I-can’t-hold-it-daddy-my-tummy-hurts!” What’s adad to do? I take one last look at my plate, thinking I hardly knewye. I dutifully get up, scoop up the child, and rush to the nearestlavatory. And this, this is when the fun begins.

“Daddy, take me to the girl’s room.” “Daddy can’t, honey, daddy’s a boy, and boys aren’t allowed inthe girl’s room.” “But, why? I wanna go to the girl’s room!” “I’m sorry, I told you: daddy’s a boy, and if daddy is taking youpotty, we have to go to the boy’s room.”

She looks up at me like she doesn’t believe me at all, but she’s gottago pretty bad so she doesn’t put up a fight. We get to the restroom,find a stall, and I make her wait just a little bit. Sorry, but I’mone of those parents who puts down layers of tissue and seat covers(2) before I’ll let my kid sit on a public toilet. This may make me anatypical dad, but so what? Sue me! You know what else? My daughter isfour, and usually needs help, so I stay in the stall with her. Itmakes things easier when it comes time to wipe up.

She hops on. Does her business. It varies with her mood, time of day,phases of the moon, whatever, but sometimes I get:

“Daddy, look at me.” Like my favorite thing to do is watch herpoop. I mean, come on!

Other times:

“Turn around. I want privacy.” So I turn around. “Don’t play with your phone.” She knows I’ll try to sneak in aquick check of my email, or Twitter. It’s usually those times when Itry to check on the larger world that she’s done more quickly.

“I’m done.” If I’m not fast enough in acknowledging thisstatement, up come the pants. I’m like “Whoa! Wait just aminute–you’re gonna get streaks. We need to wipe.” Never a morefateful statement was made. (Keep in mind that there are other folkscoming and going from the bathroom the whole time I’m trying to attendto my daughter’s needs).

“Ok, daddy, wipe me.” I proceed to commence said wiping. “Ow, daddy, you’re hurting me!” “Shh, honey, daddy’s just trying to wipe your bottom. You went potty.” “Stop it, daddy!” A little louder than before. I’m thinkingthat’s it, it’s over, I’m going to jail. “Please, honey, be quiet, we have to get the poop off yourbottom.” My voice barely a whisper now, quieting almost in inverseproportion to her’s. “Stop hurting my butt!” I grab my chest, checking for aheartbeat, I swear it felt like it stopped. And I swear I’ll never dothis again. I will never take her potty again. “We’re all done, honey.” I help her pull up her pants. I flushthe toilet. All the while wondering when the cops are gonna come. “Honey, we don’t yell in the bathroom–we need to use our libraryvoice, ok?” Looking around, I’m relieved to see that it appears likeno one heard that exchange. Either that, or these men have been, and they feel my pain. We go to wash our hands. She wants to doit herself; I have to help. We leave the lavatory. I’m thinkingthere’s no way! I’ll never take her potty again, but I know better.There’s always next week, and a tired mom at the end of it. No matterthe aggravation: I’ll do my doody! Dads, or moms, can you relate?

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randomlychad

Christ-follower, husband, dad, blogger, reader, writer, movie buff, introvert, desert-dweller, omnivore, gym rat. May, or may not, have a burgeoning collection of Darth Vader t-shirts. Can usually be found drinking protein shakes, playing with daughter, working out with his son, or hanging out with his wife. Makes a living playing with computers.
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